A Study In Ink
by MizJoely
Summary: Post Reichenbach AU. Every time he comes back, there's more ink on his body. He says it's to make up for the ink on his ledger, a way to hold onto his sense of self, his sanity, to keep from becoming a monster as he hunts the monsters down. But they both know it's so much more than that.
1. Apis Mellifura

_[Honeybee on the inside of his right wrist with the Latin name above it, black and yellow with black words, done with a delicate realism.]_

She can't help staring at the yellow-and-black tattoo so neatly inked on the inside of his right wrist. It's not large, perhaps the length of his thumb, and beautifully rendered with the Latin name just above it. " _Apis Mellifera_ ," she says, reading that name aloud. "Can I ask…"

"The contact insisted," he interrupts her as he eases back into his shirt. He'd removed it so she could stitch up a minor injury on his upper back, caused by a stray bullet after his last surveillance mission had gone pear shaped. Damn Mycroft and his interfering MI6 agents; the sniper had got away and all he had to show for weeks of work was the wound on his back and the tattoo on his wrist. "Wouldn't talk to me unless we met at a specific tattoo parlour in Prague. Made me get the tattoo so it 'wouldn't look suspicious'." He snorted. "As if there was anything normal about two people getting tattoos in the same room at the same time whilst speaking in whispers in a foreign language. Idiot." A dead idiot now; the sniper had taken him out after he'd made the supposedly professional MI6 agent who'd been shadowing them.

None of which he tells Molly, of course. She worries about him enough as it is. At least this time he has something to distract her from badgering him for details he refuses to give.

"Why a honeybee, Sherlock?"

He shrugs, then winces at the pain the movement causes. "I've always been fascinated by bees, even thought about studying Apiology at one point," he says before she can voice her concern for his injury. "Who knows, maybe I'll retire to the Sussex Downs one day and take it up then."

He offers her a tired grin, and she smiles back even though he can still feel the anxiety coming off her in waves. "I suppose I'll have it lasered off eventually." He can do it any time he likes, but he feels curiously possessive of the artwork now adorning his body. He'd never considered getting a tattoo before, but this bee, so meticulously detailed and exquisitely rendered…he finds he wants to keep it.

As if reading his thoughts, Molly speaks those very words. "No, you should keep it." When he gives her a sharp look, she shrugs awkwardly. "I-I mean, if you want to," she stammers. "It's nice, it suits you."

He turns his wrist this way and that, studying the drawing inked into his flesh from various angles. "Yes, I suppose it does," he finally says, flashing her another grin and a cheeky wink. "Maybe I will keep it, get a few others to keep it company."

She giggles, and he feels her tension dissipating – and, surprisingly enough, some of his own as well. He's been 'dead' for six weeks now, utterly focused on bringing down the remains of Moriarty's international crime syndicate, and this is the first time he's been back in London. He knows he surprised Molly by showing up at her flat, but he also knows it's the one safe place he has here. He can't go anywhere John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson might see him, and he has to keep his contact with Mycroft limited as well – although that's not much of a hardship.

"Not sure my mum would approve," he says nonchalantly. He knows Molly's met his parents, under the pretence of personally offering her condolences when they were 'too grief-stricken' to attend his funeral.

"Your dad'll probably like it, though," Molly replies with a grin. "And you know what? Your mum probably will too. Get some flowers inked near the bee and tell her you did it to remind you of her."

"She does love her garden," Sherlock agrees with a faint answering grin. The grin disappears as he starts to button up his shirt. "Thanks," he says gruffly, the word still odd coming from his lips, especially sincerely offered as it is today. "I know you didn't sign up for any of this."

Molly interrupts him with a hand on his arm. Startled at the unexpected contact, he looks into her brown eyes, so fierce and serious yet tender and warm at the same time. "Sherlock, when I asked you what you needed that night, I didn't put a time limit on it. If you need me, I'm here."

She means it, just as much as she meant it that night; he can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. How he's earned such fierce devotion, he has no idea, especially from a woman who once believed she didn't count, that she didn't matter to him. She believes in him as strongly as John does, is just as loyal and protective of him.

"Why?" he asks, needing to hear her response. "Why are you always here for me, Molly? When I've been so awful to you, when you didn't even think I...that you counted?" he hastily changes the word at the last second. She must already know he cares about her, surely?

"Because I believe in the words of John Donne," she replies. He knows his expression is blank, the name unfamiliar – deleted? – because she rushes to explain. "You know, 'no man is an island, entire of itself'? The poem? Didn't you have to learn it in primary school?"

He shrugs. "Possibly. Poetry is nothing but sentimental rubbish – but I can see why you might like that one," he adds grudgingly. And he does; Molly is also sentimental but 'rubbish' isn't a word he would ever associate with her. Except when it comes to her fashion sense, although he's finally learned not to comment on that. Nor on her looks or figure; that ridiculous Christmas party taught him that much, at least. Not a lesson he's cared to delete, even if he's never examined the reasons for not doing so.

Molly continues speaking, oblivious to his sudden consternation. "So you need friends, Sherlock, even if you don't think so. I mean, you've got John and Greg…"

"Who?" he interrupts her, his expression blank again – this time on purpose. He knows perfectly well who Greg is but pretending to forget the man's name is a habit he's sure he'll never break.

"Greg," she repeats, a bit louder this time, as if she thinks he just didn't hear her. "But yeah, I mean, you jumped off a building to save their lives, and Mrs. Hudson, and I guess I'm not close enough to call you a friend but I do think of you that way. Which is fine, if you don't," she hurriedly adds. It's as if all her rambling words have suddenly jammed up in her throat; her cheeks turn pink and she drops her eyes to her nervously-twisting hands. "I know you said I count and I can't tell you how honored I am that you trust me…"

He silences her with a kiss, unplanned and brief, but lingering long enough on her lips to keep from being mistaken for simple expediency. "Molly, you're my friend," he tells her when he pulls back. His hands are on her shoulders and she is staring up at him with wide, wide eyes. "You count and I trust you and we're friends." He repeats the words firmly, willing her to believe him. Because it's the truth, and because he finds he wants her to know, before he leaves her flat and disappears from London yet again, that she is important to him.

How important, he doesn't let himself ponder. At least as important as John, if comparisons must be made. If she presses him for an answer.

But she doesn't, simply smiles and tiptoes up to give him a soft kiss on the cheek, very near his mouth but not quite touching. "We're friends," she agrees with a dazzling smile. He ponders the way he once told her her lips were too small without lipstick and mentally kicks himself for being such a self-absorbed ass.

Before he can blurt any of that out he takes a step back. "Thank you," he says, and she nods. He feels her gaze on him even after the door closes behind him.

The bee on his wrist itches like mad and the bullet graze burns but neither of those inconveniences haunt him the way the feel of her lips beneath his does.

* * *

 _A/N: Many thanks to both nocturnias (sherlolly on tumblr) and asteraceaeblue for reading this over and encouraging me to continue it. You guys totally rock._


	2. Papaver somniferum

_A/N: Thank you for your lovely reviews of the first chapter. This one is short but the third chapter is already written and so is part of the fourth so huzzah for that!_

* * *

 _[Poppy flowers on his right forearm on the inside, right above the honeybee, red and black ink, about 2 inches wide by 3 ½ inches long, clearly made by a different artist]_

"Poppies?"

Molly's eyebrow is raised as he shows off his newest tattoo. "What?" he says, more than a little defensively. "You said my mum would probably like it if I had a flower, that it would remind her of her garden."

"Yeah, but I doubt she grows opium poppies in her garden," Molly points out tartly.

He shrugs, feigning indifference. Molly knows about his more unsavory habits: his stints in rehab, his battles with addiction (and his denial of being an addict, his insistence that he's _just a user_ ). She knows about the lists, too, just as she knows not to ask him if this newest tattoo is a sign she should be checking for a different sort of needle mark on the insides of his elbows.

Instead she examines his bare torso for signs of infection around the previous wound she'd stitched up for him. She declares him healthy and he grins at her before sitting down and pulling his shoes off.

She stops him when he starts to remove his trousers – a pair of seedy blue jeans a size too large for him, deliberately so – by putting her hand on his wrist. She's blushing as she demands to know what he thinks he's doing.

"Got another scratch I need you to look at," he says casually, and her brow creases with worry as she removes her hand and lets him finish pulling down the jeans. He can feel her gaze on him, knows that she's trying very hard to keep her eyes from wandering, and feels a slight stirring in an area of particular interest to her; what the fuck? He hasn't allowed himself to feel any sort of sexual attraction to anyone since The Woman (not that he acted on it, not right away, and for some reason thinking of her when he's with Molly feels wrong). To let his body overrule his brain like this is betrayal of the basest sort.

He retreats into his mind palace as Molly kneels down before him, her attention fully occupied by the nasty gash in his left calf. He barely notices as she peels the blood-encrusted bandage away and applies an antiseptic to the abraded flesh, too busy cataloging old case files in order to keep his blood flowing where it should be rather than pooling in his groin.

She looks up at him when she's done rebandaging the wound, balancing herself with one hand on his opposite knee, and he can feel his eyes widening at the sight of her mouth so close to his...near his...fuck it, _inches from his cock._ His traitorous, getting-harder-by-the-second cock. Which is only barely covered by his cotton briefs; all Molly has to do is look down and she'll see…

Fortunately for his peace of mind, she keeps her eyes on his as she pushes herself up, patting him on the shoulder and declaring his injury as clean as she can manage. "You really should go to a proper doctor," she chides him with a frown. "Are you sure Mycroft can't…"

"Too dangerous," he says, turning his back on her and pulling up his trousers. He keeps talking and moving, both to distract her from his inexplicable erection and to give said erection time to settle itself back to its normal, far more placid state. "It's barely safe for me to keep popping in and out of London like this…"

Uh-oh. He's said too much that time, given her another reason to worry about him. Because of course she won't take his words to mean that he's putting _her_ in danger, and so it proves when she speaks. "Sherlock! If it's not safe for you, then why? Stay away, for God's sake! I mean, I'll worry either way, but if I'd known it was dangerous for you to come here…"

She's wringing her hands and blinking her eyes very rapidly, on the verge of tears. He's yet to see her actually cry: not during the entire faked suicide, not afterwards, not even when he was blatantly awful to her before that. He finds he doesn't want to see her cry now, so he snaps at her instead. "Don't be stupid, Molly; I have to have someone I trust to look after me when I'm injured. Would you rather I bled to death just because I didn't want to risk coming to London?"

"If you're ever in danger of bleeding to death, I'd hope you'd have the sense to hightail it to the nearest A&E!" she snaps back, brown eyes flashing with anger now.

Good. Near-crisis averted. _Two_ near-crises averted, actually, since his cock has decided to settle back down again. Thank _God_. "Duly noted," he says as he stands up, preparing to leave.

"You can stay, if you'd like. Sleep here," Molly offers unexpectedly. "If you don't have a deadline to meet, or something."

He considers the offer. He should say no, head out, make his way back to the Continent, but the idea of sleeping here is strangely appealing. His next contact isn't until Friday, in southern Spain, and he can do research here as well as an anonymous hotel room. "All right," he says, eyes flickering briefly over her as he makes his way to her sofa and commandeers her laptop. "Don't worry about feeding me, I ate yesterday."

She doesn't listen to him, of course, and an hour later he finds himself munching on spring rolls and some rice dish from the Chinese take-away down the block from her flat.

When he leaves the next morning, having spent the night in her bed while she took the sofa (far too short for his lanky form and the idea of bed-sharing was too alarmingly appealing to be considered), he's well rested, well fed, and full of energy.

In spite of his intentions otherwise, he suspects - no, he knows - he'll be back again at some point.

Molly's flat has become one of his official bolt-holes.


	3. Society of Toxicologic Pathology

_A/N: And now the story earns its rating. I hope you enjoy it, and I thank you for all your wonderful reviews and for following the story._

* * *

 _[Society of Toxicologic Pathology symbol, microscope in a triangle set inside the outer circle of the logo, dark purple with white details, roughly the size of Molly's palm, set just above the internal pelvic bone on his right side]_

He's not even injured this time. Molly barely has time to rake him with anxious eyes before he's shaking his head, impatient to get to the point of this latest, surreptitious visit to her flat. He lifts up his t-shirt to show her his latest acquisition. Her gasp of surprise is expected; what's less expected - downright unexpected, were he being honest - is how she bends almost double and drops a reverent kiss to the bit of flesh it covers. It's drawn just above his right hip, right where the waistband of his low-slung jeans currently sit: a dark purple microscope with the Society's name encircling it in the same shade. Molly's been a member of the Society of Toxicologic Pathology for seven years now, but he can tell by the way she reacts that she had no idea that he was aware of that fact.

"You got this for me? Because of...me?"

She's kneeling at his feet in order to study it more closely, and he swallows, hard, at the sight of her upturned face, her eyes bright with what he suspects are unshed tears. Why tears? His mother does this too, gets all shiny-eyed when he (admittedly rarely) does something...sentimental...in her presence. Unlike with his mother, however, his body reacts in a very visceral, very male manner at the raw emotion in Molly's eyes: he gets hard. Very hard. Just like the last time he saw her kneeling in front of him, and something inside him snaps. Reaching down, he grabs her wrists, yanks her to her feet and kisses her.

She makes a surprised squeak when their mouths mash together, her eyes wide. He has no idea if she closes them or not because his snap shut as physical sensations overwhelm him. The softness of her lips. The warmth of her body as he pulls her close. The hardness of his cock. The smell of her hair, everything, everything just perfect. As he'd always known it would be, deep in the back of his mind.

This has been building between them for years even if he's tried his best to ignore it, to file it away, to close it up in a box with all his other inconvenient urges and feelings. But he let John Watson into his life and suddenly had a friend. Then Irene Adler came sauntering in to remind him that yes, sex still existed no matter how much he tried pretend it didn't, and now Molly isn't just a convenient, tractable _lab assistant_ (not that was ever her job title, not since he's known her) but is instead something more. A friend, like John. A sexual creature, like Irene. Someone who sees him and knows him and yet somehow, inconceivably, still wants him.

Still _loves_ him. He won't flinch away from the truth, not now.

He's heard the saying _warts and all_ but never really paid it much mind. Now that it applies to him, he gets it. He doesn't deserve her love, her loyalty, her fierce, quiet commitment to being there for him, but he accepts it. Craves it, even, just as he now admits he craves her. Not just this, the hard, hot kisses, their hands tearing away clothing, naked bodies joining together, but all of her. Emotions are messy, they're dangerous and detrimental to The Work but right now he doesn't give a fuck.

Their bodies grapple and slide together, slick with sweat, her sweet, sweet hands on his cock, his lips on her right nipple, his fingers digging into her upper arms hard enough to leave bruises neither of them care about.

If he's going to do this, he's going to do this wholeheartedly, no reservations, and he needs her to understand what he's asking of her even as he lays her down to the hardwood floor of her sitting room. "You said I could have you," he bites out as he raises himself above her, aching to dive deep inside her hot, welcoming cunt but wanting her to hear him first. "If I wanted you, I could have you. And I do, I want you."

She nods, lips parted on some words he knows he'll want to hear eventually - agreement, permission, absolution - but he rushes on before she can speak. "Not just want you, Molly, not just this." He releases one arm and gestures at their naked forms. "All of you. I know I have no right, that there's the very real possibility that one of these times I won't come back or you'll get tired of waiting for me…"

She silences him with an upward lunge of her body, her mouth hard against his, swallowing his words and silently reminding him that now isn't the time for talk. "Make love to me, Sherlock," she demands when they pull apart in order to remember how to breathe. "Fuck me hard and then tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. I promise, I'll listen to it all but we both know that I'll always be here for you." Her eyes are fierce and yet somehow tender at the same time. "Always, always."

So he does. He does everything she demands of him. As he enters her, any signs of timid, quiet Molly Hooper vanish; in his arms is a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to take it from him. He comes fast the first time, too fast for her to reach her own climax, but makes up for it by immediately going down on her.

She tries to protest, squirming beneath his mouth, tugging on his hair, but he ignores her, holding her thighs in an iron grip as he dips his head between her legs and caresses her with his tongue. His semen is dribbling out of her cunt but he doesn't care; it's not the first time he's tasted his own cum and he doubts it'll be the last, not if he and Molly are going to actually make a go of it. He glances up at her, gives her a wicked smile, then buries his mouth against her hot, slick flesh, putting his tongue to better use than he ever has before.

Molly's sighs and groans as he works her are music to his ears; he makes a mental reminder to compose something just for her the next time he gets his hands on a violin.

For now, he's quite happy to play her body, to hear her moans and cries as she comes closer and closer and finally tumbles over the edge.

Afterwards he helps her up, his arm around her shoulders as they stumble to the bathroom for a quick scrub-up before making their way to her bed. It's a double, barely, and far too small for the room in her spacious flat, and he makes a mental note to have Mycroft's PA 'Anthea' find something more appropriate. Something big enough for the two of them to share since he tends to sprawl when he sleeps.

He mentions that to her later, when they're lying close together, his voice a sleepy murmur.

"Make it cherry," she replies, just as sleepily. "To match the wardrobe." She yawns, then giggles a bit. "And my jumper, the one you hate."

"Don't hate it," he mumbles, curling on his side and engulfing her in his embrace. "I'll prove it, too."

The next time he returns, she shows off the new cherry wood sleigh bed and matching side tables in her bedroom - and he shows her the new pair of cherries tattooed on the inside of his right thigh.


	4. Doctor and Soldier

_[Rod of Asclepius with a rifle instead of a rod, right upper arm below the shoulder, four inches in length and about an inch wide, black ink with white details.]_

Two months later he's on his way to see her, to decompress from his latest mission and to show off his newest bit of ink. He's particularly proud of this one, as it's the first he's entirely designed himself. A risk, since it's more likely the tattoo artist will remember a custom order, but one he feels justified in making, since he's never gone to the same tattooist in the same city twice.

He had this one done in New York City, his only trip so far to the United States - at least since childhood holidays with his family to dreary places like Oklahoma and Indiana. New York City is much more to his taste, although no city can ever compare to London. He even took the time to see a concert at Carnegie Hall. An even more extravagant self-indulgence than a custom tattoo, but how could he not when the London Philharmonic was playing?

He puts such trivia aside as he arrives at her flat and taps on the door. She's home, he knows she is since he always checks her schedule whenever he slips into London like this. On a day like today - rainy, a bit chilly - she's not likely to have stopped anywhere on her way home from Barts, unless she'd utterly run out of something essential, like tinned cat food. Or biscuits.

He hears her muffled voice from within, advising him to 'wait just a sec, on my way!' and bounces impatiently on his toes. When the door opens and he sees her smiling face, he can't help but smile back before he leans down and kisses her.

"Sherlock!" she hisses after the kiss comes to a very satisfactory conclusion. "Someone might see!" But her cheeks are pink and she's smiling even as she hustles them further inside and makes sure the door is shut and locked behind them.

He shrugs and shoves off the hood of his jacket. "So they'll think you've got a boyfriend, so what? I doubt anyone would believe it's me come back from the dead."

"Philip might," she mutters. At his blank stare, she adds, "Anderson. He's - well, he's gone a bit...nutters since your 'death'. Tells anyone who'll listen that you're still alive, that you had help, has the wildest theories about how you did it - none of them close to the truth," she hastens to assure him as he frowns at the revelation. It's heartening that so many people still believe in him despite Moriarty's well-crafted lies, but the idea of anyone thinking he's still alive - even an idiot like Anderson - makes him uneasy.

Molly's sigh breaks into his thoughts as he follows her into her spacious sitting room. "Poor John threatened to take out an order of protection till Greg stepped in."

He nods, feeling an annoying twinge of guilt at this. Who knew Anderson would take his demise so hard? "I'm sure Mycroft has it under control," is all he says, not bothering to ask who 'Greg' is. The prickle of guilt he feels about John is harder to dismiss, but he manages through a combination of long practice and sheer pig-headedness.

John is a soldier. He'll survive just fine until Sherlock can come back home for good and take things up where they'd left off. Well, perhaps, with a few changes… He smiles and goes to kiss Molly again, but she holds him off with one hand on his chest, her eyes large and serious and damn, he's not going to get away this time without talking about...things.

No, not 'things'.

 _People_.

He knows he's right when she gives a soft sigh. "Sherlock, it's really been hard on everyone, you know that, don't you?"

He huffs out an impatient breath and flings himself into one of the brightly colored wingback chairs sat on either side of her fireplace. "Coffee?" he half-demands, not answering her question and knowing he's skating on thin ice by doing so. She's willing to do anything for him - she's more than proven that - but she's also lost much of her timidity around him, especially since they've become lovers.

"Black, two sugars, I know," she says, but the teasing tone she's trying for falls flat, and her shoulders are tense as she turns and walks away from him.

He drums his fingers on the arm of the chair, shifting uncomfortably, not sure what to do. Should he follow her, offer to help, or let her have some space before she tries to talk to him again? Because she will, of course she will; she tenacious, she's stubborn...and she's right. He slumps a bit as he recognizes that fact. Everyone is suffering while he plays knight errant, her most of all because she's the only one burdened with his secret. Well yes, Mycroft and his parents know it as well, but it's not the same thing. They don't have to see Lestrade come into the morgue or watch John doing whatever it is he's doing now that he's on his own again, or - apparently - listen to Anderson's mad theories about how he faked his death.

He's fucking this up, just as he'd always known he would, but he doesn't do relationships and she of all people should know that. Just as he's decided that this visit is a mistake, that he should just leave, she calls to him from the kitchen. "Help me make it?" she asls, and he finds himself on his feet and joining her in her spacious kitchen, standing next to her and working the grinder as she pours out the beans.

"I have new ink," he blurts out once the coffee's brewing. "Would you like to...can I show it to you?" He doesn't know why he's suddenly shy about taking off his shirt in front of her, but guesses it has something to do with the way she stopped him kissing her earlier. He doesn't want her to get the wrong idea, that he's trying to distract her with sex - which, yes, he'd very much like to do, but he won't. Well, he won't take deliberate advantage, but if she changes her mind, he certainly won't stop her.

She tilts her head consideringly, then her lips curl up in a very small smile and she nods. "No injuries this time?" she asks belatedly, her eyes flicking over him in professional appraisal.

He bites back a snarky comment about her usual patients being examined whilst horizontal rather than vertical and instead pulls his hoodie over his head and drops it on the counter. She tsks but he ignores the hint and leaves it there, hesitating only a fraction of a second before pulling his faded grey vest over his head and piling it on top of the hoodie.

She studies it, stroking her fingers along the sleek black lines; the tattooist really did an outstanding job of meeting his exacting design requirements. Someday, when it's safe, he thinks he'll go back and commission another piece. Maybe. When all this is over and he can take back his life. "Like it?" he asks as Molly continues to study it.

She nods. "I do." Her eyes meet his. "It's meant to be John, right? Rod of Asclepius?" She squints a bit and studies it closer. "But with a rifle?"

Sherlock shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Well, he was a soldier as well as a doctor, so…" He shrugs again. "I don't suppose he'll be too upset at me for altering the classic medical symbol like this."

She offers him a sad smile. "He'll be pleased, when you're home for good," she says softly. "He misses you, Sherlock. They all do. It's been hard. John's back in therapy, did I tell you that last time? And Greg was put on administrative leave while they looked into the cases you assisted on."

"But none of the convictions were overturned," he interrupts her, leaning back against her stone countertop near the coffee maker, the familiar aroma filling his senses as she opens a cabinet and reaches up to grab a pair of mugs. He eyes her chest as she strains up on her tip-toes. "Mycroft has been keeping me abreast of developments." He smirks as she gives him a _look_ , one that says _did I really just hear you make a tiddy joke?_

As she sets the cups on the counter, she lets out another soft sigh. He pulls her close, lets her rest her head on his chest as she murmurs, "Well, that's good of him. I just wish…"

He knows what she wishes; he wishes it, too, that he could be done with it all and just come back to London to stay. He needs to relearn it, to breathe it in for more than a few scant days at a time every few months.

But not yet. There's still work to do, and today is just a quick stop-over to show Molly his latest bit of ink and to find some solace in her body. No, not just her body, but her entire, lovely, amazing, _miraculous_ self. If it was just a warm body he needed, there are plenty of those available without risking a trip to London. Men, women, both...he's never lacked for willing sexual partners even - _especially_ \- when he's entirely uninterested in taking advantage of what they have to offer.

With a feeling akin to shame he remembers how Molly was once one of those people - people he has and continues to ruthlessly exploit for their usefulness to him.

 _Never again,_ he swears as he pulls her up for a tender kiss. He'll _never_ treat her that way again.

And he'll find a way - a very _different_ way - to make things up to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and John and yes, even Anderson, once he's home for good. He reassures her of that, and she nods her acceptance and apparently that satisfies her need to talk about things because she kisses him. Tenderness swiftly turns to hunger, and his last coherent thought is that it's a good thing her coffee maker has a timer and will shut itself off after a while, because neither of them are interested in hot beverages at the moment.

As they lay in each other's arms, passion temporarily sated, he reiterates his intentions. "I'll find a way, Molly. I'll make it up to them all." Then he cracks a smile and adds, "Or maybe I'll just pop on a disguise and do a dramatic reveal, like a guest on some rubbish telly show. Wear a fake moustache and some eyeglasses and an outrageous French accent, what do you think?"

He waggles his eyebrows to show he's not serious and she giggles and punches him lightly in the shoulder and he mock-wrestles her back under the covers and they spend the rest of the evening (and a good part of the night) just being together.

The next morning he slips out of bed and takes a quick shower while she slumbers on. The sun is barely above the horizon and she has a good two hours before she has to be up - mid-shift all this week - and he is loath to waken her. So he finishes up in the bathroom, then heads back to place a soft kiss on her forehead. She smiles in her sleep, murmurs something unintelligible, and rolls onto her side.

"I'll make it right," he promises softly, flexing his arm as if he can feel the tattoo weighing down his skin. "To all of them - and to you."

Then he leaves, not knowing when he'll be able to make it back again.

But he makes sure to feed Toby first, so the little pest doesn't interrupt Molly's much needed rest.

* * *

 _A/N: Many thanks to mae-jones for brainstorming this chapter with me. Believe me, it was VERY different at first but the parts I removed I will probably use for a standalone fic. Thanks for reading and reviewing!_


	5. Silver Fox

_[Handcuffs on the inside of his left elbow, metallic silver.]_

He's more than a block away when he realizes something's wrong. There's a man lurking outside Molly's flat, to all appearances just having an early morning smoke on the pavement, but Sherlock knows as soon as he sees him that he's there for a reason. Either he's waiting for Sherlock himself to show, or he's waiting for Molly to get home from her overnight shift at Bart's.

Either way, he's a problem.

Sherlock continues shuffling along in his persona of a homeless junkie making his way to a crackhouse to hole up in for the day. The man ignores him as he weaves past him with a mumbled 'sorry, 'scuse me', continue smoking his (expensive, foreign) cigarette as Sherlock passes him. He tenses, waiting for an attack that doesn't come; when he stops a few meters further down the street, pretending to stumble over his shoelaces, he does a quick recon and sees the man glancing impatiently at his watch.

He's waiting for Molly, then. Knowing she won't leave the Tube station for another half-hour, Sherlock straightens back up and ambles down the cross-street. Once out of sight of the Pavement Lurker, he lengthens his stride and digs his burner phone out of his pocket. The number he dials isn't Mycroft's, but one belonging to one of the more reliable members of his Homeless Network. "Wiggins," he says when the other man answers. "I need you and few bruisers at this address in ten minutes." He rattles off Molly's address, waits for Wiggins to recite it back, then rings off and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

Ten minutes later, give or take thirty seconds, Wiggins shows up with a pair of toughs who could have been sent by central casting. Stereotypes or not, they're exactly what he wants to see. He has them in place within five minutes, while Wiggins huddles nervously at his shoulder. "Is the missus in danger?" he whispers, sounding more anxious for her than himself.

"She's not the missus and yes, I believe she is," Sherlock replies, barely moving his lips as he speaks, his eyes glued to the thug on Molly's doorstep. In fifteen minutes she'll arrive, and he intends for this to be over with well before then.

Later, when he mentally retraces every step he's taken (and about to take) he'll see the things he's currently (and will be) missing: the color of the man's hair, the shape and size of his hands, chin, eyes...and he and Molly will laugh about it. Eventually.

But that's later. That's after Wiggins has 'accidentally' jostled the man's shoulder, causing them both to stagger off balance. After Wiggins has jabbed the man with a fast-acting sedative, then performed a passable imitation of Concerned Citizen Helping A Bloke Out when the stranger collapses to the pavement. The two thugs obediently appear, hoist their victim to his feet, and 'help' him stagger to the small alley where Sherlock still awaits them.

He times them with one part of his mind; eighteen seconds, not bad, although he probably could have done it himself in about twelve. The important thing is that no one's raised an immediate alarm, and even if someone saw the pantomime just enacted, became suspicious and telephoned the police, they'll be long gone before they're in any danger of being found out.

He realizes his mistake as soon as he opens the man's wallet. "Bugger," he says with some force as he sits back on his heels. He digs into his pocket and hands Wiggins a wad of cash. "Thanks, all set now," he says, returning his attention to the man lying in front of him. "Shit."

"E's related to the missus, ain't 'e?" Wiggins asks shrewdly, taking in all the details that now jump out to Sherlock's eyes, unmisted by the suspicion and paranoia with which he's been forced to live for the past...has it truly only been nine months?

He scrubs a tired hand over his face. "Fuck," he mutters, annoyed with himself. It's stupid that he's come to London in the first place, with no injuries to be fixed up and a string of leads to follow up in the Netherlands. But he's missed Molly, quite desperately, needs to see her, needs her to understand his newest bit of ink. He rubs at the inside of his left arm and wonders if the newest tattoo is as much a mistake as the current situation. A sign that he needs to get this bloody war on Moriarty's leftover criminal empire over and done with...

"So," Wiggins says, his tentative voice interrupting Sherlock's increasingly depressed thoughts. "We gonna make it look like a mugging? Bash his 'ead a bit so's no one looks for the the puncture?" He makes a syringe-depressing motion with his hand. "Since 'e never saw you, you're safe enough."

Sherlock frowns, although the idea is actually a pretty decent one. "Yes, but someone might put the finger on you or your two associates," he points out.

Wiggins shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time I ended up in the nick. Mr. 'olmes c'n always bail me out if I do get caught, yeah?"

Mycroft has certainly done so in the past, when Wiggins got in trouble doing work for his troublesome younger brother. "Yes, fine, do it," he says.

"An' even if we do get caught, I fink we'll still be in less trouble 'n you will be when you tell the Missus about all this," Wiggins adds with a grin.

Sherlock scowls at him. "Who says I'm going to tell her?"

He ignores Wiggins' smirk at not being corrected this time, but it's harder to ignore the knowing look in his eyes. "Can't be lyin' to the Missus," Wiggins says, as if it's obvious. Which of course it is. "Not about important stuff like this."

He turns back to the unconscious man, directing his associates to help him stage the fake mugging, as if Sherlock wasn't even there.

After a moment's hesitation, he leaves them to it and makes his way back to Molly's flat, wishing he could just delete everything that happened here today. It would certainly give him plausible deniability, and it's unlikely Molly will ever talk to Wiggins, but…

But.

Wiggins is right, damn him.

Molly is going to be royally pissed off.

 **oOo**

"Let me get this straight," Molly says slowly. "The reason my cousin Stephen ended up in the A&E wasn't because of a random mugging, but because you thought he was some leftover Moriarty thug waiting for me to get home so he could attack me?"

"Or kidnap you," Sherlock replies, drumming restless fingers against his thigh. He's lounging on her sofa as if he hadn't a care in the world, but she can see right through him. He's nervous, he's worried, he's waiting for her to blow up at him.

Can't disappoint the man, can she? Of course not. "Sherlock," she exclaims as she stalks toward him. "You just can't DO things like that!" She jabs him in the chest with one finger. He bats it away with a scowl, then rubs his chest in an exaggerated motion, as if she'd stabbed him or something.

She rolls her eyes; his scowl deepens. She remains standing, hands now on her hips, giving him her best disapproving look...and then dissolves into giggles when he grabs her and pulls her down on top of him. "You git," she grumbles, as best one can whilst laughing. "You absolute wanker! Stephen's not my favorite person, but he's still family!" She smacks him on the arm, but with absolutely zero force behind the playful blow. "I appreciate your looking out for me, but maybe next time you can find a less potentially dangerous way to do so?"

"He's fine, barely even concussed," he scoffs, seeming far more interested in removing her clothing than continuing the conversation. "And now you don't even have to endure sharing a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits with him just so he can brag about how well his life is going - well," he amends with a rather evil grin, "how well it's been going till now."

"True," Molly concedes, but stops him unbuttoning her shirt by laying a hand on his.

"Problem?" he asks with a pout.

"Not with me, but I just wanted to make sure...no injuries this time? Nothing to patch up?"

He shakes his head. "Nope," he replies, popping the p in that ridiculously obnoxious manner he has when he's feeling pleased with himself. "Nothing new - well," he corrects himself, leaning back to tug his faded grey hoodie off, "-only this."

He offers his bared forearm with a flourish, and she studies the new tat.

"Well, I don't have to ask who _that_ represents," she says with a grin. "Are you sure you don't want to have 'Gavin' inked underneath it?"

Sherlock grins back. "Don't you mean Graham?" he counters, and suddenly they're both giggling like idiots.

"Or Gary!" Molly gasps out, her giggles intensifying.

"Godfrey?" Sherlock suggests when he has the breath to do so.

Molly snorts. "Gilderoy!" she exclaims, knowing full well he won't get the reference but not caring. "Or Galaha-mmmmm!"

He kisses her, again and again, pulling her close and murmuring some very nice things about her body and he would love a better look at it, right now, thank you very much and shall we adjourn the milady's boudoir?

Adjourn they do, for a delightful interlude that involves very little talking and great deal of strenuous physical activity.

He does make note of the new furniture in her room, the cherry wood, the cheerful yellow bedding with its border of bright pink and purple flowers, but is far more interested in admiring her body and makes sure she enjoys every second of their time together.

Afterwards, lying tangled together in her bed, Molly's head resting on his chest, her fingers trace the shape of the handcuffs. "Why here, on the inside of your arm?"

"It's a reminder of the first time we met," he answers. "When I was a strung out junkie and he was the only person to see past that, to recognize the potential I was fighting so hard to hide. Every time I think about using again, I want to have to confront that memory head on."

Molly nods, her fingers lightly grazing the small white scars beneath the fresh ink. "And have you been? Thinking about it?"

"It's never far from my mind," he admits quietly. "But whenever I get close," he shrugs. "I go for a different kind of needle and I think about you, how disappointed you'd be."

Then he squints at her, leans over and examines the flowery border of her duvet before looking back at her. "Wait...poppies?"

"Yes, poppies," Molly replies. Her tone - and expression - are defiant. "To match." She runs her fingers along the flowers tattooed on his forearm. "I figured if it was important to you, then it was important to me." She shrugs, as if it's of no import, but he knows better.

"I will never ever come to the end of the mystery of you, Molly Hooper," he declares, not bothering to hide how moved he is.

They kiss, and cuddle, and make love one more time before she drifts into sleep and he contemplates his next move in the ongoing battle to rid the world of Moriarty's influence once and for all.

After he's gone, Molly receives a phone call from her very confused Cousin Stephen, asking if she knows anything about the bouquet of poppies he received in hospital, with a card that just read, "Sorry."

She proclaims her ignorance, but smiles to herself after she hangs up the phone.

She'll never come to the end of the mystery of the man she loves.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks again for your wonderful reviews. I know this chapter was a bit of a mess but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Getting close to the end!_


	6. Freak

**Six Weeks Later - France**

He hears her breath catch and knows she's seen it. Not that he tries to hide it from her – hard to do with his shirt off – but he curses himself for not explaining it before letting her work on the cuts and bruises which mar his back. He struggles to find the right way to explain why he felt compelled to have the word 'Freak' inked on the back of his shoulders in ornate black Gothic script.

They're in a lavish hotel suite on the Cote d'Azur, provided by one Mycroft Holmes for Molly's stay at some boring medical conference or other. (She doesn't know for sure it was Mycroft who provided the mysterious 'special upgrade' and she doesn't ask. Smart woman.) Did his older brother know he'd be unable to resist the opportunity to visit her when they were coincidentally in the same country together? Rather sentimental of his big brother - uncharacteristically so - but Sherlock's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Well, he is, actually, but not this time. He has his Molly and a safe place to doss for a few days, and the fact that he has a few minor injuries for her to look at is just icing on the cake as far as he's concerned - one more group of minor thugs have given up their secrets, one more strand of the web has been removed.

He tries not to think about how many strands are left as he gropes for the best way to explain his newest work of art to Molly.

"I know what you're thinking, and no, it doesn't have anything to do with Sally Donovan. She's not the first person to call me that, and I doubt very much she'll be the last." His lips quirk in a grim smile. "Not to say that I haven't deserved that particular epithet, but in this case…"

"In this case," Molly interrupts him with a knowing glint in her eyes, "you've decided to own it. To bear it proudly. Because you _are_ different to everyone else."

He gazes at her, momentarily speechless, full of admiration for the woman who sees him so clearly.

What the fuck took him so long to realize how perfect she is for him?

Idiocy, he decides as he pulls her into his arms for a breath-stealing kiss. Pure, unadulterated idiocy.

Mycroft is right; he _is_ the smart one.

Well. Maybe he wouldn't go _that_ far.

He wants to take her to bed immediately, right that minute, but of course she resists. Fusses over him. Disinfects and bandages him (she brought supplies, not in expectation but 'just in case', probably at a discreet rumor from Unknown Sources), murmurs unhappily over his bruises, brushes the softest of kisses against his shoulder once she's satisfied. When she protests further - "You don't want to bleed through the bandages, Sherlock!" - he huffs out a "Fine" and promises to keep off his back.

"That does _not_ ," he adds with a certain glint in his eyes as she backs warily away from his advancing form, "apply to you." She gives a little shriek of laughter as he chases her into the largest of the two bedrooms, slamming the door shut with one foot as he mock-wrestles her out of her clothing.

They're both naked and he's lying on top of her in the darkened room, kissing her breathless and running his hands over her breasts when he feels it. His breath hitches, his thumb gliding over the small patch of slightly dry skin on the side of her left breast, over and over, and Molly stills beneath him.

"Do you...want to see?" she asks quietly. Hesitantly. As if worried about his reaction.

"Yes."

Without another word he kneels up, allowing her to roll to her side and grope for the bedside lamp. In the warm yellow glow he studies it: not a butterfly or a rose or even a skull, but a small wooden coffin. Very traditional, very plain, except for the glint of gold that makes up the miniscule nameplate.

Only it isn't a name he sees, but instead three little words.

Three little words that make his breath catch and his heart stutter in his chest. "Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" She sounds subdued, nervous, but there's something else, something he can't quite put his finger on, can't read in her expression or deduce.

"Why a coffin? Why that particular combination?"

All thoughts of lovemaking have fled, but neither moves to put their clothes back on. Molly does pull the edge of the comforter over her lap, but leaves her breasts - and the new tattoo - bare to his view.

"Before I tell you, do you mind telling me what _you_ think it means?"

"The death of your expectations," he says immediately, throat tight and a stinging at the corners of his eyes he resolutely ignores. "Resignation, acknowledgement that you don't expect me to ever say those words to you...it's a bit cruel not to have told me about it first, Molly." He hears the bitterness in his own voice but does nothing to tamp it down. "I thought you knew me better than that. I told you when we started all this that it wasn't just sex, or don't you remember?"

"I remember everything you said, Sherlock," she replies, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on his. "And I remember things you didn't say, too. But this isn't about that, it's about _me_. _My_ feelings. I just wanted you to know that nothing will change how I feel about you, about us, even if there isn't an 'us' after you finish taking down Moriarty's network and come back home." She offers him a sad smile. "Not even death could change how I feel about you, Sherlock. Not death, not if I, I married another man or you decided we'd be better off as friends…"

He silences her with a desperate kiss, lunging forward, hauling her into his lap and kissing her over and over again until finally she rests her hands on his shoulders, considerate as always of his injuries. "Tell me how you feel about me," he demands, holding her by the arms and gazing intently into her eyes. "Don't dance around the words, not anymore, not after this." He flicks his eyes down toward her ink and then back up again. "Or do you want me to say it first? Do you need to hear it from me? Because the nameplates on the coffins aren't put there by the dead - they're put there by the living."

"Say it like you mean it," she whispers, tears pooling in her eyes. "No, sorry, I meant, only say it _if_ you me-"

"I love you," he says, slowly, hesitantly. His breath hitches, catches, then steadies as he repeats the words more confidently. They aren't easy to say, even - no, _especially_ \- when they're true. "I love you."

She lets out a slow breath, eyelashes fluttering and fingers tightening on his shoulders before once again meeting his gaze. "I love you," she replies, not bothering to wipe the tears trailing down her cheeks. "No matter what happens, I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

He makes no promises; neither of them can accurately predict what the future might bring. She's right to doubt him even if she doesn't actually speak those doubts aloud. Once he's able to return to London, to the life he left behind - to John, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and all the rest - who's to say he won't...backslide? Question himself, feel regret? Push her away even if he doesn't mean to?

And who's to say she won't find someone else to love? Someone who won't bring chaos and danger into her life, a regular guy with a dog and Friday's at the pub and Sunday dinners with his parents?

He shudders at the thought. No. Molly doesn't want normal, she doesn't need boring and ordinary, or she'd never have been attracted to someone like him. Or someone like Jim Moriarty, for that matter. "Did you know there was something off about him?" he asks abruptly, finally ready to ask her about her ex not-her-boyfriend.

Her brow furrows and then clears. "You mean...Jim?" He nods and she lets out an exasperated huff of laughter. "Why now, Sherlock? I mean, we just told each other we love...and you bring up Jim Moriarty? Now? Wouldn't you rather…?" She gestures vaguely toward their naked bodies, half pulls the sheet away from her lap.

"No. I mean yes, I would but I just...I need to know. Did you know? Did you-" Ugh, he hates the word, but uses it anyway "Did you...sense something off about him? Before I so cleverly deduced him," he adds. Not bitterly, but with a touch of self-directed annoyance in his voice.

She starts to shake her head, then stops, her eyes going distant as she really _thinks_ about the question. "Maybe?" she finally says, making it a question. "I mean, there were a few times when he would look at me like I was a puzzle to solve, but afterwards I just thought - well, he was probably thinking about _you_ and didn't realize I could see him. Because as soon as he did he'd make some goofy joke, or kiss me -"

He tenses, then forces himself to relax, but it's too late. She noticed; of course she did. "You kissed him, then. While you were dating." His fingers itch to make air quotes but he restrains himself. Barely. But he knows she can hear it in his voice, the sudden thunderous deluge of jealousy he feels at the thought of anyone - but most especially _him_ \- kissing his Molly. Touching her. "You had sex with him," he says. A statement, not a question.

She nods, makes as if to pull herself out of his arms, but he tightens his hold. "Stay," he murmurs, burying his face in her hair. He has no idea why suddenly he's so emotional - maybe admitting to his feelings was a bad idea after all? Mycroft would certainly think so; he can practically hear his brother's smug, placid voice saying _Caring is not an advantage._

 _Fuck off, Mykey,_ he thinks with an internal growl. Caring might not be an advantage, but he refuses to believe it's a weakness. Not when he has people like Molly Hooper - and John and Gavin - in his life.

And what difference does it make who Molly had sex with in the past? She's with him now, and he needs to make up for even bringing the subject up to her. And what better way to do so than by offering up a confession for an admission? "I slept with her. The Woman. Irene. And she's not actually dead."

Judging by the way Molly practically wrenches herself from his arms, he might have just made an even worse mistake than harassing her about her past sexual relations with Dear Jim. Shit. How do ordinary people manage to bumble through relationships with each other without going barking mad? How does John manage it, with his endless string of girlfriends? Or Lestrade, who manages to forgive his wife every time she cheats on him?

Then again, ordinary though those two men are, they aren't exactly the ideal examples for this particular subject. "I'm not still seeing her, I don't even know where she is, we only text sometimes," he scrambles to explain, watching helplessly as Molly jerks her arm out of his pleading grasp, rises to her feet and grabs her (plush, white, crest-embossed) dressing-gown from the hook on the back of the door.

Oh yes, he's royally fucked this up, all because he doesn't know when to keep his stupid mouth shut.

"I'm going to sleep in the other room," Molly says, her voice dangerously calm. "If you find a way to actually get your size elevens out of your mouth and talk to me like a rational person - which you pride yourself on being - you'll know where to find me. In the morning," she adds, whipping her head around to glare at him. "And not one second sooner."

She closes the door behind her, not slamming, but firmly. It's definitely not an invitation for him to follow, as confusing and contradictory as social cues between the sexes can often be. No, in this case, 'don't follow me' means exactly that and nothing more.

He spends the rest of the night in his Mind Palace, trying desperately to find some way to make things right again - and damning himself for being the freak so many people have always told him he was.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorrynotsorry for the cliffie, but the chapter was getting too long and, well, I'm evil. :) Anyhoo, the next chapter shouldn't be too much longer so there's that. Thank you as always for your lovely reviews, and a special thanks to lilsherlockian1975 for assuring me this chapter wasn't too Out There with its deliberate TFP refs. Oh! If you want to see what the various tats look like, check out the story on AO3, which allows pics to be uploaded within the text._


	7. Freak Part 2

When he comes back to himself he's surprised to realize he actually knows what he said wrong - and what to do about it. _He can be taught,_ he thinks sardonically as he rolls out of bed and heads for the room where Molly may or may not still be sleeping. It's barely dawn, but it's morning by all definitions of the term and thus he's adhering to her rules.

He doesn't bother knocking, too impatient to talk to her, but feels the wind knocked out of him at the sight her lying alone in the king-sized bed. She looks so small and helpless - vulnerable - that he immediately regrets barging in on her like this and starts to back out of the still-open door.

Too late; she stirs, blinks open her eyes, and stares at him as he dithers in the doorway. "Sherlock? Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he replies, letting go of the doorknob and stepping tentatively back into the room. "Me."

Molly slowly sits up, hugging her knees against her chest. "What do you mean?" she asks warily.

He takes another step into the room, dragging his fingers through his tangle of curls. "I'm wrong, Molly, in so many ways. Not just because of what I said last night - of how jealous I was of you and...Moriarty," he manages to choke out, "but because I don't know how to do this, any of it. I told John that girlfriends weren't my area and I should have remembered that before I dragged you into any of this, before we had sex and I fucked up your life and I'm just...sorry. I know you're not upset that I slept with Irene, or that I didn't tell you she was alive, I know it's because I did it out of spite and jealousy and just blurted it out instead of reacting like the rational, logical man I present myself as…"

"Sherlock," Molly says firmly, her body language relaxing as she releases her protective hold on her knees and instead sits back against the leather headboard, "come here."

He scrambles to obey, almost leaping onto the bed, hesitating the briefest moment before sitting next to her. "I'm sorry," Molly says at the same time he does.

He stares at her. "For what? You don't have anything to be sorry about."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you why I was upset," she replies, her voice low but she's holding his gaze steadily. "I did just what those idiots on the telly do, when they expect their boyfriends and husbands to know instantly what's bothering them. I expected you to read my mind or something, which no matter how brilliant you, I know you can't do. That. Read my mind," she adds awkwardly, as if he might not be able to parse her meaning.

"If I could it would be incredibly useful and I doubt we'd be having this conversation," Sherlock says, relaxing the minutest bit at seeing her as awkward and fumbling as he currently feels. "Because I'd have known right away what was wrong. But you don't need to apologize, Molly, not ever. I'm the one going around telling everyone how clever I am, showing off and being all egotistical. All you've ever done is try to help me - all you've ever done," he adds wonderingly, "is love me. All this time, and I took far too long to realize that was what it was. I treated you with indifference and took you for granted and for all that and more, I am so very, very sorry."

"Forgiven," she says, kissing him softly on the lips. She scrunches her nose and pulls her head away, covering her mouth with her hand. "Sorry, morning breath."

"Bugger morning breath," Sherlock declares, and kisses her again.

Kisses turn to something more; passion ignites as it so often does between the two of them. Sherlock struggles out of his pyjama pants and t-shirt, helps Molly shed her obscenely cheery yellow-and-pink striped oversized sleep shirt, and rolls her on top of him once they're naked. He pulls her down for another kiss and groans against her lips as she wriggles herself into a more comfortable position, her knees on either side of his thighs, her delicious little pussy rubbing against his burgeoning erection.

She sighs and moans as he strokes his hands down her back and squeezes her bum; their kisses grow urgent, sloppy, until she abruptly pushes herself up so that she's kneeling directly over him. She takes him in hand, stroking him into full hardness before moving the head of cock into her wet heat. With gasps and moans she sinks down onto him; he steadies her with his hands on her hips, guiding their movements until they find their rhythm.

He watches, hypnotized by the sight of her breasts bouncing, her head thrown back so that he can see the arch of her throat above that enticing sight, until the need to have her closer overpowers him. He tugs her down, not gently, and wraps his arms around her as their movements become harder, faster, more frenzied.

"God, Molly," he moans as she plants wet, frantic kisses on his throat, his chin, his ear, anywhere she can reach. "So perfect, so fucking perfect…"

She comes hard, crying out and digging her nails into his shoulders, and he follows shortly after, falling deliriously over the same pleasure-cliff into satiation.

 **oOo**

The last day of their Parisian getaway - Molly can't abide when he calls it a sex holiday even though they both know that's what it is - is spent alternately making love and gorging themselves on delectable sweets. Molly bemoans the state of her waistline between bites, and Sherlock obligingly points out that she's likely only gained a pound or two, which leads to her throwing a pillow at his head, which he catches in both hands with a smirk, which leads to her wrestling him for control of it, which leads to more lovemaking right there on the sitting room floor.

But as night falls and they share a room-service meal of some sort of cream-drenched chicken and vegetable combination, the mood becomes sober and thoughtful, at least on Molly's part.

Sherlock is determined to keep things light, but she's not having any of it. "Promise me you'll be careful," she says.

"I'll be as careful as I always am," he replies, shoving his fork into the (really quite good) chicken. Before he can lift it to his mouth, she's covered his hand with hers, holding him until he meets her gaze. "I'll be careful," he promises, leaning forward to kiss her softly on her downturned lips.

She kisses him back and even manages a wan smile, but her eyes are still troubled.

They make love one last time, and he waits until she falls asleep before he slips out of bed, dons his ratty jeans and hoodie and track shoes and fades away into the night.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone for sticking with this story and leaving such marvelous reviews. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint, even if there's no new ink in it!_


	8. The Music Man

_A/N: Surprise! I'm actually updating this again! Shocking, I know. Thanks for your patience, and for your lovely reviews. Enjoy this (T rated, alas) chapter. And if you ever want to see the tattoos I describe, check out this story on AO3 and tell me what you think!_

* * *

 _Clef note in black about an inch long on the right side of his neck (right below the ear)._

She doesn't see or hear from him for three months after that week in Paris. When he does pop back up again, it's not at her flat or even (God forbid) St. Barts; it's in the baking aisle at Sainsbury's, and she's left temporarily speechless when she spots him. Oh, she knows it's him, even with the outrageous disguise he's sporting: ginger hair and (scraggly) beard, three piercings in one ear, ratty jeans and oversized sweatshirt and 'warr' and 'pease' [sic] clumsily inked (permanent marker, not tattoos, thank God) on the backs of his knuckles on either hand.

He smirks at her across the basket of her trolley, into which he dumps an armful of packets of ginger nuts and chocolate digestive biscuits, letting them spill carelessly on top of her groceries. "Hey Molls, long time, eh? Ta for the snacks, see you later, gotta go grab that movie you wanted to see!" he warbles in a fair approximation of a Yorkshire accent. He swoops close and gives her a peck on the cheek while she's still groping after something to say.

"Tell Aunt Vickie I said hi!" he adds as he steps back. He even gives her a little finger waggle of a wave goodbye before vanishing around the corner.

Ok, so that's his game; he's her cousin Leo come to visit. Leo who's been drifting around Europe for the past eight years, give or take.

But when, she wonders as she dazedly finishes her shopping, did he find out about Leo's habit of calling her mum Aunt Vickie even though she always goes by Tori?

She finishes her shopping in a rush, heart pounding with anticipation as she hurries into a cab and gives her address. The driver helps her unload her carry bags, thanks her for the generous tip she gives him, and drives away while she fishes her keys out of her jacket pocket and struggles up her front steps.

The door opens just as she puts her key in the lock, causing her to stumble and curse a bit.

Sherlock - for of course it was he who opened her door - gives her a cocky grin as he catches her by the arms and rights her. Instead of offering to take the carry bags, he steps aside, the git, so she has enough room to squeeze past him and into her front hall.

"Prat," she mutters as she drops the bags to the cool tile floor.

Any further comments she might be considering are swallowed up when his lips claim hers in a fervent kiss. A kiss she returns just as passionately; she's missed him, so much, and although she wants to give him an earful for not offering to help her with her groceries - and more importantly, for slinking out in the night in Paris, leaving her sleeping and ignorant of his leaving till the next morning - she decides there's plenty of time for that later.

After they've grappled their way to her bedroom, strewing discarded clothing from foyer to fireplace along the way. After they've fallen atop her (unmade, she was in a hurry this morning) bed, bodies pressed so tightly against one another even a breath couldn't pass between them. After they've made love again and again, as if making up for lost time (they are).

In the sweaty afterglow of sex, she realizes there's some kind of dark smudge showing on the side of his neck. Not a love-bite; she's always careful, even in the frenzy of lovemaking, to keep those below the collar. Besides, it doesn't look like a bruise, it looks like ink. "What's this?" she asks, reaching up to rub at it, startled when the mark remains but the - makeup? - comes off on her fingertips.

He grabs her wrist, kisses her palm, and folds her fingers together. "If you want a proper look I'll need a wet flannel," he replies with a small shrug. "Or a nice...long...hot...shower." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and she doesn't bother to hide her grin at the innuendo.

Thirty seconds and one brisk flannel-scrubbing into the hot shower and the makeup (stage quality, he matter-of-factly informs her, designed to withstand copious amounts of sweat) is gone, revealing the tattoo it had been covering.

"A clef note?" She traces it with her fingertips, top to bottom, every swirl and line of the stark black design. "Missing your violin, are you?" She runs teasing fingers up the other side of his neck. "Maybe you should get one tattooed on this side."

He smiles and splashes her playfully. "No, wouldn't want to cover up your favorite moles, would I?"

She splashes him back, then frowns a bit and studies the clef note. "Why _did_ you cover it up, anyway?"

"Because your Cousin Leo isn't a musician," he replies with a shrug, clearly more interested in soaping up her breasts than in the current conversation. "Besides," he adds as he pulls her close, "all his ink is amateur work. Prison ink," he adds disdainfully.

"What?" Molly squawks, pulling back and staring up at him disconcertedly. "He's not been in prison, he's in Europe on a, a sort of walk-about!"

Even as she says it she realizes how unconvincing she sounds - has she always suspected Aunt Lynne and Uncle Henry's story about their son's sudden desire to travel?

"Noooo, he's at Dartmoor," Sherlock says slowly, eyeing her with curiosity and a faint hint of apology. "I thought you knew. He's due to be released this week, point of fact."

"How do you know all this? Are you sure it's my Cousin Leo we're talking about? Leo Chesterton?" she presses, knowing how ridiculous her questions are. Of course he's sure, he's Sherlock bloody Holmes, he doesn't spout off information like that unless he knows what he's talking about. "Never mind," she mutters when he opens his mouth to answer her. "I think I need a drink."

She rinses off, grabs a towel, and leaves him to finish his shower as she dries off and throws on her dressing gown. She ignores the clothing they'd stripped off earlier, but does lug the groceries into the kitchen and starts to put it away in between sips of wine.

A few minutes after she's finished with all but the tins of cat food (for which Toby is meowing piteously, as if she hasn't fed him for days) Sherlock silently enters the kitchen, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips but carrying the discarded clothing. He drops it into two piles - his and hers - and steps around the island to put a hesitant hand on her shoulder. "Sorry," he says, his expression contrite. "I really did think you knew already."

"I suppose it's something to do with drugs," she sighs, allowing him to pull her into an embrace. He's still warm from the shower, smelling of her bath wash and shampoo, his curls a damp mass dangling over his eyes (but still ginger, so that wasn't a wash-out sort of tint, more's the pity).

"Something," he agrees, but doesn't elaborate. She makes a mental note to talk to Leo when he gets out of prison, then decides to put him entirely out of her mind for now. She and Sherlock sip their wine, they order Thai take-away, he sends a text and a member of his homeless network shows up on her doorstep with the food twenty minutes later. Sherlock pays him (her? Molly doesn't get a good look and decides it's better not to know), and they curl up on the sofa to watch some telly while they eat.

It's so domestic, so comfortable, that it's not until they're getting ready for bed that Molly realizes she hasn't asked how long he'll be in London this time. Before she can do so, he demonstrates exactly how uninterested he currently is in conversation...and she decides, as he rolls beneath him and begins kissing his way down her throat and chest, that it can certainly wait until the morning.

If, of course, he's still there when she wakes up.

 **oOo**

"I never realized you had trust issues, Molly."

She gives him a wary look as she enters the room. "Trust issues?" she parrots, toweling her hair as she approaches the bed.

"You've been checking up on me every five minutes since you got up," he replies as he rolls onto his back, arms behind his head and (ginger) hair still tousled from sleep. "So either you've developed trust issues or you're worried I'll nick the silver when your back is turned."

"Well, you did just sort of...disappear when we were in Paris," she points out, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I mean, I know why you did it that way-"

"No you don't," he interrupts her, sitting up and tugging her onto his lap.

She squeals in surprise, clutching at the towel as it tumbles from her head. "Sherlock!"

"Hush," he admonishes her, then kisses her next words away. "I had to leave the way I did because if I didn't…" He pauses, looks away, and there something in his eyes that holds her still in his embrace, waiting for him to finish his thought. "If I didn't leave when I did, I might not have left at all. And there's still too damn much work to be done before I can be that selfish."

It's not an admission she'd ever expected to hear, and it touches her heart. "I wish it was finished now," she admits as she strokes his cheek. "I wish this-" she touches his most recent tattoo "-was the last one you ever got."

He grins, a bit wryly. "I'm an addict, Molly. What makes you think I'll stop after I'm back home for good?"

"Well, the last one you ever got whilst being 'dead'," she says.

He gazes at her intently. "Mm, you'll know that one when you see it," he says, rather cryptically, but refuses to explain, even resorting to tickling her to drag her off-topic. It's only when the tickling becomes something a bit more intimate that she lets the subject drop.

But it's one she'll wonder about over the next eleven months.

 **oOo**

She gets a text message with an attachment from an anonymous caller three weeks later. It's Sherlock, it has to be, unless random strangers have decided to start sending her snaps of their tattoos.

She grins at the newest bit of ink he's gotten for himself - well, it's far more than 'a bit' as it covers most of his lower back, in the classic 'tramp stamp' location. _That must have hurt like a bitch,_ she types, and lets out a snort of laughter at his immediate response.

 _Like a bitch and her puppies. All twenty of them._

A few seconds later another text appears. _I think it's going to be a while before I'm home again. Thanks for always being there for me. Delete these messages and the picture. You know why._

She reluctantly does as he's asked, but only after looking up the two lines of musical notes he's had tattooed in his flesh.

It takes a while, but eventually she figures it out.

Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, transcribed for the violin.

She hopes he'll play it for her someday, when he's back for good.


	9. The Family Man

_A/N: Only a few chapters left in this fic, believe it or not. To see the new tattoos, please check out the story on AO3. Many many thanks to mellovesall for putting together the cowboy-boots-and-brolly illustration for me from clipart, and many thanks to everyone for reading, following and reviewing this fic._

* * *

 _[A pair of red cowboy boots with a black umbrella in front of them on his right calf, about an inch and a half in diameter]_

She doesn't see him for six another months, but she knows he's alive and well because of the texts she receives. The first one - from an unknown number, of course, but she's learnt to open those in spite of the possibility of annoying spam - has an attachment. It's a low resolution photo; she squints at the image, puzzling it out, unsure of what she's seeing, when her mobile buzzes with another incoming message.

 _The brolly is obvious but the boots are for my parents. County line dancing. They love it for some reason, don't ask me why, I have no idea._

She grins at the message, starts to send a response but is interrupted when her mobile buzzes again. _Don't reply, this phone will be destroyed. Don't save the photo either._

She sticks her tongue out; of course she knows better than to save the photo! But as she starts to do as requested, a third - and final, at least from this number - message arrives.

 _Miss you._

Her heart does a little jig, and she smiles. Holds the phone up to her mouth, using both hands. Smiles again.

"Miss you too," she whispers as she deletes the texts. All of them, no matter how much she longs to keep the last one.

 **oOo**

 _[Black and white skull and crossbones across the back of his left shoulder, about two inches in diameter]_

Another month passes and she receives another text from an unknown number - she doesn't think it's the same one as before, but since she didn't write that one down or keep the messages, she can't be sure. But she knows it's from Sherlock even before she opens it.

When she sees the photo of his latest tattoo and the subject line - _Is it too late to change careers?_ \- she laughs softly, remembering a late night conversation in the Path lab.

" _Sooo, I was just wondering...that is, if you don't mind my asking…"_

" _Spit it out, Molly, in spite of appearances I actually don't have all night to make idle chit-chat with you."_

 _She'd ignored his petulant tone, chalking it up (accurately, as she well knew) to his frustrations on the case he was working. "John put it in his blog - he says when you were a little boy, you wanted to be a pirate. Is that true?"_

 _He'd looked up from the microscope long enough to frown at her and she'd awkwardly attempted to laugh it off. "Oh well, if the detective thing doesn't work out, I suppose it's never too late to change careers!"_

 _He hadn't deigned to respond, but she'd thought she'd seen his lips quirk in an almost-smile as he returned his attention to the sample he'd been studying - paint, as it turned out, and the key to the case John called The Speckled Blonde on his blog._

Trust him to expect her to remember that conversation - or at least the details he'd neither denied nor confirmed.

Until now, of course.

Smiling, she risks a quick text. _A childhood dream realized, eh Lydia*?_

She doubts he'll get the reference - or that she'll get a response - and is surprised when he texts back: _I suppose I am becoming an encylopidia at that._

She sends him a LOL and a winking emoji and that's the end of it for another two weeks.

 _*Lydia the Tattooed Lady by Groucho Marx. Check out the video on youtube!_

 **oOo**

 _[A teacup on a saucer with steam curling up out of it on his left ankle, less than an inch in diameter]_

The next message, sent about a week later, is another photo, this time of a - she squints, then enlarges the image - a tea cup? Yes, a tea cup, just the outline of one in green ink, sitting on a little saucer, with a curl of steam almost like a question mark rising from the top. It's on his ankle, which explains the awkward angle of the photo.

She smiles as she takes in the details, realizing who this tattoo is meant to represent: Mrs. Hudson's reliance on her 'herbal soothers' to help with her dodgy hip is the worst kept secret on Baker Street.

Her grin fades as she thinks about Sherlock's elderly landlady. She hasn't been to visit for months and months, and guilt gnaws at her for neglecting her. They're not exactly friends but they're certainly friendly. But is it really fair, to visit the older woman and act as if she has no idea Sherlock is alive? That guilt is even worse, the comfort she has at knowing Sherlock's alive, that their relationship has grown and changed while everyone else thinks he's dead.

Then again, holding herself aloof from the people Sherlock cares about isn't doing anyone any good. So after deleting the photo and its accompanying text ( _Miss you, xx Lydia,_ oh that makes her smile again!), she goes into her contacts and pulls up Mrs. Hudson's number.

After she speaks to her, Molly resolves, she'll call Sherlock's mum and check in on her and his dad, see how they're doing. And then she'll give Greg a shout, take him up on that offer of a pint and some chips with him and Sally he'd made earlier in the week.

(Sally might never be Sherlock's biggest fan but at least she'd been big enough to own up to her mistake in believing him guilty of kidnapping and attempted murder.)

And after that? Maybe she'll try to get in touch with John. She knows he's moved out of Baker Street, taken a small flat about a half-hour north of St. Bart's, but she hasn't spoken to him or seen him since just after Sherlock's 'funeral'.

She might not be able to do anything to help Sherlock with his mission, but maybe she can do something for the people he's been forced to leave behind. And getting back into the habit of taking tea with Mrs. Hudson is a good first step.

They're all part of Sherlock's family, and now that Molly finally feels like one of them, she knows it's time to stop shutting herself away from them all.

The phone rings. Mrs. Hudson answers. _"Hello? Molly, dear, is that you?"_

And Molly takes the first step toward reuniting with Sherlock's other loved ones.


	10. Extraction

_A/N: Only one chapter left in this fic, believe it or not. To see the new tattoos, please check out the story on AO3. Many many thanks to nocturnias (sherlolly on tumblr) for reading this over in case I made any egregious errors. (Any such errors still existing are my fault entirely, not hers!). And many thanks to everyone for reading, following and reviewing this fic._

* * *

 **A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it."**

 **― Oscar Wilde**

 _[Wilde quote along left side of abdomen, wrapping around his side to just above his navel]_

Molly touches the screen of her phone, breath stilling in her lungs even as her heart pounds so hard, so fast she thinks it might burst through her flesh. This photograph isn't grainy; it's high quality, so clear she can see every detail of the words and the pale, lightly freckled flesh below those words.

It's his side and belly, the quote in elegant black script, and from the angle it's clear Sherlock isn't the one who took the picture - unless he'd done it in a mirror? No, then the words would be reversed, and they're not.

Molly's breath, only recently restored to her lungs, shudders out again and she goes cold from head to foot. Oh God, what if this isn't from Sherlock? What if someone has him, is holding him prisoner, torturing him, and that Someone sent this picture as a taunt or a warning?

Before she can work herself into a proper panic, she receives a second text.

 _Don't worry, Mycroft took the picture. Under duress, but still._

The message accompanies a second picture, this one definitely a selfie, angling upwards and making Sherlock's nostrils look enormous.

But that's not what catches her attention; it's the scraggly, overgrown beard and tangled masses of hair, the dark circles under his eyes and the waxy paleness of his skin that have her tearing up at the sight of him. It's been six months and he looks like he's gone through hell even though he managed to find time to get new ink and send her pictures of them.

 _Oh Sherlock,_ she laments to herself, knowing better than to bombard him with concerned texts, _what's happened to you?_

Slow, fat tears start to well in the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision as she stumbles back and plops gracelessly onto her sofa. _Mycroft_ , she reminds herself as she tries desperately to rein in her emotions. _Sherlock is with Mycroft, or Mycroft is with Sherlock - where?_

 _Where are you?_ she texts as soon as she can get her trembling fingers under control. _Are you coming home?_

 _On our way,_ comes the response. _Had to finish up a few things in Serbia which I could have easily done myself but my brother got impatient, some kind of terror plot or something equally boring he couldn't take care of himself._

She can't help smiling at the snide tone, so completely Sherlock, but the tears don't seem to want to stop falling.

A few seconds later a second text alert pings, and she laughs through her tears at the sight of his right forearm covered nearly from elbow to wrist with the chemical formula for adrenaline.

 _See you soon. Miss you._

 _Miss you too_ , she sends back, then holds the phone close to her lips, close enough to kiss.

He's coming home. He's coming home, and he insisted that Mycroft take a picture of his latest ink to show that he's still thinking about her.

She closes her eyes, letting the tears fall freely as she forces herself to think beyond the simple, trembling joy of this moment. He's coming home - what will that mean?

His name's been cleared for months now, so he won't be coming home as a fraud or a fugitive - well, unless Greg wants to hold a grudge for escaping police custody with John as a hostage ( _she knows he won't, although she's not so sure about John, but that's a worry for another day_ ).

Either way he'll be coming home to a media frenzy; she can just picture the headlines about the return of the 'Hat Detective' and other such nonsense. At least, she thinks vindictively, Kitty Reilly won't be one of the reports converging on Baker Street; she'd lost all journalistic credibility when it came to light how fully she'd been taken in by Moriarty's 'Rich Book' scam.

" _A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it."_

He may never show that to anyone else but those closest to him, but Molly smiles through her tears at the thought of him wearing his own personal two-fingered salute forever inked into his skin.

Her smile fades as she remembers where her troubled thoughts had been leading her. Sherlock is coming home and that means she'll no longer be his only link to London and friends and family. Things will change, it's inevitable, and she just hopes that one of those things that change won't be his feelings for her.

 **oOo**

"Honestly, Sherlock, the amount of self-mutilation you've put yourself through is absolutely ridiculous. And to what purpose? To make yourself absolutely useless for government undercover work? If that's the case, you've certainly achieved that goal. Mummy certainly won't be impressed, that's for sure, although I do hope I'm there when she sees what you've done to yourself in your absence."

Mycroft continues to natter on and Sherlock continues to ignore him as the plane wings them homeward. Back to London, to Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade and his parents and…

He touches his hand over his heart. Back to Molly. The one who matters most. The one he's most desperate to see again, with John an extremely close second.

But first, the tedium of debriefing. And perhaps, he thinks as he scrolls down the phone Mycroft gave him, catching up on the most recent London headlines, a shave and a haircut. He'd gotten a bit ragged, partly to suit the last persona he'd donned and partly because - well, sadistic jailors didn't exactly have their prisoners' grooming at the top of their priority lists. At least, not in his personal experience.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"

"Too many tats, not fit for government work, Mummy will be so disappointed," is his prompt reply. "How much longer will this trip take, Mycroft? Your display of brotherly affection is growing tedious."

He's going for irony but a glance at Mycroft's face tell him he's fooling no one. He really is grateful to be heading home, even if it's for some new national emergency (there's always a new one brewing, he's learned) - and he's even grateful that Mycroft came himself rather than just sending some lackey. Probably because he knows Sherlock might not have cooperated with said hypothetical lackey, but still.

"Mummy might be disappointed in how you've spent a good portion of your time playing dead," Mycroft says, "but she won't be disappointed that you're back. You will stop and visit her and Dad sometimes before your return is noted by the press, won't you?"

Sherlock nods, smiling abstractedly at the phone. There's a picture of Molly, a candid shot of her in the Pathology Lab at St. Bart's. Then his brain catches up with his emotions and he shoots a scowling look Mycroft's way. "Where did you get this?" he snaps, holding up the phone so his brother can see.

Mycroft doesn't bother looking up from his own mobile. "You didn't think your little trips to Miss Hooper's flat went unnoticed, did you little brother?" He raises a sardonic eyebrow. "You do remember that her surveillance level was increased once she agreed to help fake your death. And once I was made aware of the change in your relationship I took a more...personal interest in keeping an eye on her. For your sake."

There is no sarcasm, no condescension in his voice at that last admission, just a simple statement of fact. Sherlock swallows his instinctive retort, instead nodding his understanding. They share a moment of rare brotherly rapport, which Sherlock, of course feels compelled to break before it becomes uncomfortable for them both.

"Here," he says, tossing his mobile at Mycroft, who catches it only after dropping his own on his lap. Sherlock lifts his shirt and lies back, indicating his midsection with a gesture. "Take a picture of that for me, bro, I want to show it to Molly." He holds up his right arm. "This one too. I didn't get a chance to send it to her."

Mycroft sniffs but does as he's asked, taking several shots of both tattoos before handing the mobile back to his brother. Sherlock picks the best of each and sends them to Molly.

"I suppose we should just be grateful it's the chemical formula for adrenaline and not cocaine," is Mycroft's only comment before they're interrupted by the steward offering drinks.

Home. He's going home. Things will be different, Sherlock muses as he sips his ( _really quite good, probably 25 year old Talisker_ ) whisky. John will likely be angry; he'll have to be careful how he approaches him. He smiles at the memory of a conversation he and Molly had, where he joked about putting on a fake moustache ( _John, apparently, has a real one, that'll have to go_ ) and a faker French accent and just springing himself on his friend. No, he'll have to tread cautiously, but with Molly to help explain things he's confident he won't muck it up.

Lestrade, on the other hand - him, he plans to surprise, absolutely confident he'll take it in stride.

Besides, he has to have _some_ fun with this homecoming. "I'll take that file now," he sighs, setting his whisky aside and holding out his hand.

Mycroft gives him an inquisitive look; Sherlock scowls at him. "No, not the one for whatever mission you have waiting for me at home, I know you won't share that one with me until the official debriefing is over. You know which one I mean."

Mycroft smirks, but opens his briefcase and hands it over. "Dossiers on everyone who was under threat by Moriarty," he says as Sherlock opens the folder and begins flipping through it. "The three assassins you neutralized by jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's have been remanded to the custody of various countries holding outstanding warrants against them, Mrs. Hudson's health has been assessed - she's a very strong heart, no worries there - and, well, you can read the rest yourself."

Sherlock intends to do exactly that, but before he reads more than a few pages he finds himself nodding off.

His last thoughts before sleep claims him are of how happy Molly will be to see him - and how he can't wait to show her the other tattoo he's had inked into his skin.


	11. Homecoming

_A/N: Here we are, folks, the penultimate chapter. Only one left to go and then another WiP comes to an end. Lots of smutty goodness in this one, some new ink, and hopefully some fun surprises as well. Thanks as always for your marvelous reviews and for sticking with me. You guys rock!_

* * *

 _[Burning spiderweb on his right shoulder to about halfway to his elbow, with a dead spider curled up in the center, black with red and gold, very flashy]_

He arrives at her flat dressed as himself, from freshly barbered head to expensive black patent leather shod feet, dramatic black Belstaff atop bespoke black suit and a tightly-fitted dress shirt in Molly's favourite shade (aubergine). The expression on her face when she opens the door to him is a succession of so many emotions only someone like Sherlock Holmes - all right, only Sherlock Holmes himself - could possibly catalogue them all: happiness, fear, concern, hope, a smidge of desperation…

"I'm back for good, Molly," he says before she can even open her mouth. "Name cleared, reputation restored, and thoroughly debriefed by Mycroft and various governmental types. Boring." He offers her an exaggerated leer. "I'd much rather be debriefed by you."

She responds with an exasperated huff of air from between her lips, lips that reluctantly curl into the smile he's grown to know and love. "C'mere," she finally says, grabbing his scarf and yanking his head down closer to hers. Then those lovely, lovely lips meet his in a kiss as sweet and warming as cinnamon roasted chestnuts on a cold winter's day and he knows there's no place he'd rather be.

He allows her to drag him into the flat, shoving the door shut behind him as the kiss deepens into a proper snog. He allows her to shove his beloved and much missed (although not nearly as missed as kissing her) Belstaff off his shoulders and onto the floor. Allows her to undo his jacket button, then each button on his shirt and cuffs, even allows her undo the flies on his trousers before he decides he can no longer remain passive and starts taking off her far less complicated jumper-khakis-fuzzy socks (with kitty faces on them of _course_ ) combo.

They only pause when she pushes his shirt off his left shoulder and sees his new ( _but not his newest, that one's still covered by a patch of sticking plaster that she'll notice shortly_ ) tattoo. It's a large one, covering his shoulder and descending nearly to the middle of his upper arm, and very colorful - all burning red flames and silver webbing with the smallest black dot of a curled up, extremely dead, spider in the midst of it all.

A masterpiece, if he does say so himself ( _and he absolutely does as he commissioned and designed it and very nearly learned the art of tattooing in order to be certain it met his exacting standards_ ). But that's just his opinion, and his opinion is no longer the only one he values, hasn't been for a very long time. Well, not that long, but long enough - and not nearly long enough, paradoxically.

While these thoughts flash through his mind Molly has been studying him, running light fingers across the various strands of the web, eliciting delicious shivers at the soft, stroking touches against his (sensitive, oh so sensitive) skin. "Well?" he finally asks, impatient to hear her thoughts if only so he can finish undressing her and get her into her (their) bed.

She hums noncommittally. "Not subtle, that one," she finally says.

"Don't like it?" Sherlock asks, but she surprises him by shaking her head.

"Oh, no, I like it a lot. Especially the squidgy dead spider in the middle; you can barely make him out, but he's there. Like I said, not subtle, but very, very…apt."

"Well, I did think about having the words 'Dear' and 'Jim' inked on the soles of my feet so I could continuously grind him beneath my heels, but decided against it for aesthetic reasons."

"Meaning no one would be able to see it or meaning you're ticklish and don't want anyone to know?" Molly asks with a grin, running the toes of her own foot teasingly across his own.

Sherlock's response is a grunt before he pounces, grabbing her and pulling her tightly to his chest. "Shall we see how ticklish _your_ feet are, Miss Hooper?" he growls, while Molly squeals and struggles. To no avail, of course; Sherlock Holmes always gets his way, no matter how high – or low – the stakes. Especially when it comes to Molly Hooper.

They finally make it to her (their) bedroom, clothes littering the hall behind them. She starts to ask him about the protective plaster on his chest but he distracts her with a few strategically placed kisses - and by very unsubtly tossing her onto the bed. She lands with an 'oof' and a giggle and he continues to distract her by hauling her towards his now-kneeling figure, grabbing her ankles and then her knees until she ends up with her backside on the very edge of the bed and her delicious little cunny directly in front of his face.

He wastes no time, dragging his tongue across her slick folds and smiling at the soft gasp she emits in response. His eyes close, his hands grasp her thighs, and he lets out a groan of sheerest pleasure as he suckles her clit between his lips.

She tastes delicious as always; as always, he feels a prickle of relief that his memory hasn't deceived him, followed immediately by irritation. Of _course_ his memory hasn't deceived him; if there's one person whose every flavor - every expression, every sound, every feature - he's been meticulous about preserving in his mind palace, it's Molly Hooper.

She makes one of his favorite sounds, a sort of combination squeak-squeal as he sweeps his tongue deeper inside her. Her hands clutch the duvet, scrunching it up in two deceptively tiny fistfuls, one on either side of her (equally deceptively tiny) body. "' _Though she be but little, she be fierce_ '." He mumbles the famous quote against her heated flesh before once again devoting himself to driving her relentlessly toward orgasm.

He feels, tastes, engages every sense when she comes a few minutes later: her hips lift off the mattress, pressing her body more closely to his face; her body gushes out a heady, musky honey to delight his tongue and sense of smell both; he hears her cries of pleasure and feasts his eyes on the magnificent sight of her in the throes of passion - the sweat gleaming on her body, the rosy flush across her face and neck, the thick tangles of her unbound hair streaming across the pillow.

Part of him could hover in this moment indefinitely, but the rest of him is impatient to draw another climax out of her, preferably in concert with one of his own. With that goal in mind he reluctantly withdraws from his position kneeling between her thighs and instead hauls himself on the bed next to her. He strokes her sweaty forehead, leaning down to kiss her fluttering eyelids, her cheek, the tip of her nose.

Her lips curl up in a smile as he settles more comfortably by her side. "That," she says without opening her eyes, "was amazing. You should go away for two years and come back again all the time, if that's how you'll greet me!"

He ignores the illogic of her words, having become fully familiar with 'Molly In Teasing Mode' by now. Instead, he strokes his fingers along her cheeks, cupping her chin so he can tilt her head and kiss her, now that she's begun to recover from her (if he does say so himself) absolutely _devastating_ climax.

"Mmm," she murmurs against his lips when the kiss ends. "Somebody must want something from me." She opens her eyes, a mock frown drawing her eyebrows down. "It's a body part, isn't it. You want me to give you a body part to experiment on, don't you."

"Guilty as charged," he says with a grin, then wrings a gasp out of her as he rolls them so that she's sprawled atop him. "Although what I'd actually like to do is give _you_ a body part to experiment on." He waggles his eyebrows and gives her an exaggeratedly lecherous leer and she breaks down in giggles before allowing him to kiss her again, this time with more serious intent behind it.

She's still incredibly slick and he slides into her with very little effort; she leans forward so he can lavish little kisses and nips to her breasts and then she's riding him exactly the way he likes her to: full on, no hesitation, intent on bringing them both to orgasm and he couldn't be happier. This is exactly the homecoming he'd anticipated and nothing and no one will ever keep him away from his Molly for so long ever again.

He tells her that, gasping out the words as he starts climbing the peak that will end in the kind of tumble he most enjoys. "I love you," he cries as he feels her walls tightening around him, milking his climax from him. "I love you!"

"I love you, too," she pants, then words are entirely lost to them as they surrender to mutual bliss.

 **oOo**

Sometime later they're lounging comfortably together, when Molly runs a finger across the bandage on his chest. "Sooo," she says, drawing the word out deliberately. "This obviously isn't an injury of some kind, so I'm guessing...new ink?"

"You're not guessing, you're deducing," he corrects her, only slightly cross at such imprecise language. After all, people do spend an inordinate amount of time _guessing_ and _assuming_ when they should be _observing_ and _theorizing_. But in this case he knows she's teasing him, just a bit, so he refrains from actually chastising her.

Besides, he's in no mood to pick a fight, no matter how playful, not right now. Not when he's about to show her what lies beneath the concealing bandage.

He's no actual need of it, of course; Molly could call it his dramatic side but he wanted to wait until they'd made love to celebrate his return before revealing his newest ink to her.

"Go ahead," he says with an encouraging nod as her fingers linger on his chest. "Peel it off, I know you're dying to."

He grins as she wrinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out at him, watching intently as she carefully pull the bandage off and balls it up to drop into the bin.

She studies the gold lettering, forehead wrinkled, then looks up at him in obvious confusion. "I thought you already had a tattoo for John?" She nods at the Rod of Asclepius on his upper arm.

Sherlock shakes his head with a frown; does she really believe those words are for John? Why? He voices his questions aloud. "Why would you think this is for John?" he asks, trying not to let his irritation creep into his voice. Does she still not get it, even after all this time, all she's done for him and he for her?

"Well, it's over your heart," she says, somewhat uneasily. "And my Latin is pretty rusty, but I can see it means something like 'the most important one', and John, well, he's your best friend, he saved your life…"

"Just as you are, and have also done," Sherlock interrupts her. He lifts her hand and places it firmly over the tattoo. Over his heart. Where it belongs. "And it means, roughly translated, 'the one who matters most.' And that, Molly Hooper, would be you." He kisses her to punctuate his point. "Besides," he adds a few delightful minutes later, "where is it written that a man can't have two best friends in his life? If John still is," he adds with a slight frown. "Not sure how quickly he'll be able to forgive me for lying to him for two years."

"John always forgives you in the end," Molly reassures him firmly. "And he will this time, trust me." Her expression saddens a bit. "Me, on the other hand…"

Sherlock gives a huff of annoyance. "This is supposed to be all about you and me; how the hell did it end up being about John instead?" he grumbles. "You're right, he'll forgive me, and he'll forgive you as well. I'm sure this new fiancée of his will help him get over any hurt feelings."

"They're not engaged, Sherlock, just living together!" Molly protests, but he waves her off.

"Won't be long, I give it, mm, two days before he pops the question. I'll give him another day after that to bask in the joy of having successfully snared a woman who can put up with his annoying habits, then we'll make the big reveal, all right?"

Molly gives him the side-eye at how blithely he dismisses her concerns - and possibly at his mention of John's annoying habits when he knows he has even more of his own - but allows him to pull her back into his arms. "So," he says, "let's start over, shall we? Do you like it?"

She nods shyly. "I do."

"Hmm, I never thought I'd say something like this, but I do like the sound of those two words on your lips," Sherlock murmurs before kissing her. "Maybe we'll be forgiven quickly enough to make it a double wedding."

He's trying to kiss his way down her throat and to various interesting points south but she stops him with a gasp and a hand pressed to his arm. "Sherlock! Did you just propose?"

He pauses, tilts his head consideringly as he reviews his most recent words. A slow smile spreads across his lips as he meets her gaze. "D'you know what, I think I did. But before you start offering me all the reasons why it's a bad idea - don't worry, I already know them all - let me try to convince you to say yes anyway, hmm?"

And he manages just that right after an intensive session of lovemaking that leaves them both breathless and sated.

For now.

 _Ipsa qui est maxime_

 _["the one who matters most" in ornate gold metallic script over his heart]_


	12. Epilogue

_A/N: Here we are, folks, the end of this fic. It's dedicated to the fabulous Nocturnias (Sherlolly over on tumblr), and many thanks to Mouse9/stlgeekgirl on tumblr for reading over these past couple of chapters for me. And of course, thanks for your marvelous reviews and for sticking with me to the end. You guys rock!_

* * *

Things progress rapidly from there, both in their relationship and in his return to his old life. He asks Molly to help him break the news of his un-death to his former flat-mate and friend, "since you've already vetoed the fake moustache and French waiter disguise, after all."

She agrees, of course she does, and is there to help clean him up after John punches him. She meets Mary Morstan, John's fiancée, at the same time Sherlock does; they explain things, working together as smoothly as if they've done this a million times before. She's the one to gently take Mrs. Hudson aside and explain things as well but leaves him on his own with Lestrade, whose warm, brotherly hug and obvious happiness at seeing him alive and well make up quite a bit for Mrs. Hudson's semi-hysterical remonstrations and John's lingering anger.

John freezes them both out for weeks after the reveal, but gradually Mary wears him down, and finally he comes to 221B to talk to Sherlock. To smooth things over between the two friends. Molly excuses herself, joining Mrs. Hudson and Mary for a getting-to-know-each-other-better chinwag and drink copious quantities of tea while the two men hash things out.

"It was the tattoo, I think," Sherlock muses as they lay together - for the first time - in his bed. "I showed it to him, explained why I had it commissioned and he actually seemed to believe me this time when I told him what I've already told him over and over again - that he just can't be trusted to keep his mouth shut and would have blown my cover if I'd told him I was alive."

"Sherlock!" Molly exclaims, but subsides when she he grins at her. "Yes, fine, you got me," she admits, allowing him to pull her more comfortably into his arms. "But it's good to know that he does understand that his life was in danger, and not just his. That you did it to save him and Mrs. Hudson and Greg."

Sherlock gives her his patented 'who are you talking about' expression, which she ignores in favor of pulling him down for a lingering kiss. "So, that's everyone sorted, then," she says when they come up for air. "Your reputation's been restored, your friendship with John's been restored, you seem to be getting on all right with Mary, the press conference announcing your return is tomorrow...am I forgetting anything?"

"Just one thing," Sherlock replies.

It's Molly's turn to look confused - legitimately, as she's pretty sure she's covered all the bases. But when Sherlock reaches into the drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a small, velvet covered box in the unmistakable Tiffany's blue, she gasps. "Sherlock, are you-"

He nods, opens the box with a flourish. "I am," he affirms. "So. Molly Hooper. The one who matters most." She reaches up and brushes her fingers against the ink on his chest bearing the Latin inscription of those last words just over his heart. He smiles down at her, a gentle, loving smile she once-upon-a-time would never have believed his face capable of forming. "Will you marry me?"

Six months later they reveal their matching wedding ring tattoos, inscribed with the date of their elopement (four days after he asks that oh-so-delightful and unexpected question), just above their left hips. John merely purses his lips and shakes his head, but Mary and Mrs. Hudson make admiring sounds and study them closely. "No," John says when his fiancée gives him a mischievous look. "Absolutely not. I was in the army, not the bloody navy."

If Mary ever gets him to change his mind, neither Sherlock nor Molly ever find out - nor do they particularly care. The only ink they ever concern themselves with is the ink on their own bodies, mapping out their life stories. Molly adds to hers more than once: the dates of their two daughters' births, a pair of gamboling kittens...and a deerstalker with the words "My Hat Detective" inscribed above it in an arch.

Sherlock pretends to hate it.

Molly, of course, knows better.


End file.
